


Mine Enemy, Mine Friend

by felin78



Category: Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felin78/pseuds/felin78
Summary: A continuation of what happened after episode 3.19 'Grey 17 is Missing'.Marcus is on the mend when he encounters his former nemesis.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written Sept 2007
> 
> During my convalescence from surgery I finally finished this piece.
> 
> It's my second story in this fandom, the first was written in response to a story contest challenge, which needed to be clean and non-slashy. I took the kernel of the original story idea, dealing with a gift, and gave it a slashy bent.
> 
> I tried to stay true to names, language and history, but may have strayed off track at times. The two sources I have used heavily are the jumpnow website and the Code 7R list glossary for Rangers. 
> 
> Story glossary:   
> denn'bok:  Minbari. Minbari fighting pike  
> kata:  Japanese. Literally "form". Word describing detailed choreographed patterns of movements practiced either solo or in pairs.  
> Zhaden:  Minbari. Honorific title. Warrior.  
> Anla'shok:  Minbari. Ranger  
> Shai'Alyt:  Minbari. Commander. Equivalent to Earth General or Admiral or Commander in Chief.  
> Sech: Minbari. Drill Master.  
> Entil'Zha:  Minbari. Title given to Ranger One, the head of the Rangers.   
> Los ahael:  Minbari. Literally blood fire.  
> Zocolo:  A name used on Babylon 5 for the marketplace.  
> Shan'hak:  Minbari. Play.  
> Nee:  Minbari. No. Not.  
> Tanto: Japanese. Literally, short sword. A common Japanese single or, occasionally, double edged knife or dagger with a blade length between 15 and 30 cm (6-12 inches).  
> Menuki:  Japanese. Charms placed under the wrapping on the hilt of a sword to help with the grip of the blade.  
> Ma're:  Minbari. Understand?  
> Nusen'taal:  Minbari. Thank you. Formal.  
> Hela'mer:  Minbari. Healer.  
> Shan'hela:  Minbari. Massage. Healing massage.

 

Marcus Cole blocked the attack with the ease of long practice.

"Good for a starting volley, F'la" he said, "but only to take stock of your opponent. Come again."

The young Minbari stepped up her pace, attack high, block low, attack low, mid-line, trying to find an opening. Marcus parried each strike, using only his arms, not his whole body. That was one thing Durhann had taught him, the lesson of conserving energy, leashing the power, holding it in check until it was truly needed. Against a lesser opponent, the movements were rote, simple, like the building blocks children played with to learn their letters.

That was a good thing, since he was still healing. The bone knitter had done most of the work, but the bone callus at the site of a break--of which he had many--was a still a patch until it matured. Not to mention all the damage to the supporting structures....He smiled slightly, recalling Dr. Stephen Franklin's lecturing voice, which had turned rapidly into nagging. _It's not a cure, you moron, so don't push it, okay?_

Well, this wasn't pushing, not in the least. F'la was a new recruit, raw and untrained. It had been the work of a moment to wheedle Derrick, the current training master, to let Marcus help out with the daily exercises. Of course, Marcus knew he ran the risk of incurring Stephen's ire, but it was worth it. Another day of gazing at his toes from the reclining position in his bed would've driven him bonkers. One more day, and Delenn--the prophetess with the all-seeing eyes--would've broken through his every last defense and looked into his soul. 

He would die first before letting that happen. The darkness he carried inside, the pain he held close, locked away… Delenn was not the one with the key. Though Marcus understood her intent, it was not to her he would yield, of that he was certain.

He blocked another tentative attack, then moved in closer, swinging his denn'bok in whirling arcs. He sank into the familiar dance that provided an effective barrier while still allowing him to advance. F'la backed away, her guard dropping. One quick step and thrust and the end of his pike touched her throat.

"When you attack," Marcus said lightly, " _attack_." He put emphasis on the word. "You cannot be half-hearted in this, or else the enemy will slip his way into the place where you stand divided. Do you understand? " He gazed into the young Minbari's dark eyes as she nodded. "Good." Marcus let the tip of his staff drop. "Who's next?" 

The loose circle of recruits gathered around them shuffled their feet and looked at each other. Leaning against the far wall, Derrick shrugged his broad shoulders and gave a half-smile. 

"Your reputation proceeds you," he said. "News travels fast--you've been the subject of very intense discussion these past two weeks. Pretty ballsy move, mate, to challenge a fully blooded Minbari warrior and live to tell the tale."

Marcus grinned and hefted his sleek pike. He gazed at the faces around him, all filled with respect, as well as concern. "Come on, then. This is a sparring session." He turned on the balls of his feet, then sank into the standard fighting crouch. "Unless you lot want to do all fifty moves of the fourth _kata_ again."

Loud groans greeted his statement, making him laugh.

"Who's next?" he asked again.

"I am." The answer didn't come from the six young rangers surrounding him, but from the entrance to the training hall. Marcus knew that measured voice, low and level, with a hint of gravel underneath. 

 _Zhaden_ Neroon.

Clad in his customary black, the warrior made his way into the room, and the crowd, old and new rangers alike, parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Outrage and hostility rippled through the air.

"What's he doing here?" an angry voice called out.

With a growl Derrick extended his pike and pushed off from the wall. Marcus shook his head, warning him off. 

" _Anla'shok_ Cole." Neroon stood before him, solid and intent…and just out of  reach of Marcus's denn'bok.

Marcus gave a wary nod. Other than the unexpected visit in Med-lab, he hadn't seen the Minbari warrior during the rest of his recovery. Then again, he'd been pretty out of it for the first few days after their first unfriendly clash of wills. 

His memory of that time remained hazy and confused. But his dreams….Such odd dreams he'd had, filled with conflict, wrestling, violation and domination, all mixed with an intense longing be couldn't put a name to. Each time he had awoken from sleep sweating, unsettled and aching, sexually aroused beyond all reason. The feeling had been analogous to trying to masturbate with a persistent toothache. Not exactly a pleasant sensation.

" _Shai'Alyt_ Neroon." Marcus kept his tone steady. "To whom or what do we owe the unexpected honor of your presence?"

"I would speak with you, _Anla'Shok_ Cole…alone." The rich timbre of voice pierced Marcus to his spine, sending a shudder racing down his body.

"I'm rather busy right now." Marcus shifted his weight, twirling his weapon back and forth, hand to hand, in 4/4 time.

"Ah, the second movement of the fourth _kata_." The dark eyes appraised him, inscrutable. "Shouldn't you be resting? I was under the impression you were released from med-lab on a medical discharge--restricted duty."

"What concern is that to you?" Marcus stepped forward, closing the distance between them, broaching the invisible line that divided fighter from spectator. 

Neroon took one step back.

"If you're not here to spar, leave." Marcus's voice sharpened. He sank into fighting stance and thrust his staff forward in blatant threat display.

The _Shai'Alyt_ looked him up and down, then glanced at the trainees who made no pretense of not listening avidly to their conversation. 

"If I agree, will you meet with me?" This said reluctantly, in the manner of a man unaccustomed to compromise.

"I'll consider it."

"Very well." Neroon swung his mantle over his left shoulder, unhooking his denn'bok from its sheath on his thigh. 

The bouts going on in the other corners of the hall stopped at the sight of Neroon extending his pike to full length. It didn't take a lot of imagination to figure out what everyone was thinking.

Marcus smiled grimly, his grip tightening on the center of his denn'bok. The  uneven circle of people about them spread out and became a solid symmetrical ring of bodies. A hush fell.

Neroon also smiled, with just the slightest curve of his lips. "Shall we start with the fourth _kata_ , third level, for warm-up?"

Marcus searched the dark eyes for a hint of condescension. He'd thought he lost all sense of pride when his home colony was destroyed, and his family along with it, but judging by the hot knot in his chest, this was not the case. Being bested by Neroon still rankled him, although he had known it was like going against a force of nature. Man against whirlwind, a futile endeavor.

"Warm up for you," Marcus stated, "then we spar. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Neroon said. He stepped forward, and Marcus followed suit.

"We live for the One, we die for the One," Marcus said, the customary words a reflex by now, said so often they were a part of him, like the breath in his lungs, the blood in his veins.

"Indeed. But no dying today." Neroon wove languid patterns in the air with his denn'bok, like a skilled Chinese calligrapher painting on invisible paper.

Marcus mirrored the movements, his gaze lingering on the black-gloved hands that had almost killed him. It was a fascination unlike any he had ever experienced, one he could now indulge without the harrowing press of desperation nipping at his heels.

He pushed away all thought, let his body take over. Without effort his mind slipped into that sacred place between thought and dream. Fluidly, gracefully, he turned and twisted, ignoring the warning twinges from his healing bones and muscles.

His dark counterpart reflected back each of his gestures perfectly, down to the rhythm of his breathing. The watching eyes, the atmosphere of curiosity and hostility--all of it faded away in the face of the figure who haunted his dreams. 

 _There is strength in weakness, if only you would see it._ _Sech_ Durhann's words drifted through his mind. _You are stronger than you know, Anla'shok Cole. One day you will believe it._

One day, perhaps. 

For now, Marcus took comfort in the fact he had achieved his objective: holding back the tsunami which would've snuffed out a light in the darkness. In doing so, he, a simple ranger, had saved Delenn's life--had saved the _Entil'Zha's_ life.

So why wasn't he satisfied?

The lure of facing Neroon again proved irresistible, insanely so. Damaged and broken and mending he might be, but to feel the rage of the storm again, to ride the giddy crest of the tidal wave, staring into the depths of the abyss….

Another opportunity to exorcise my repressed anger, he thought ruefully.  

They finished the form and bowed to one another.

So much for ritual niceties. With a silent snarl, Marcus launched his attack.

*******

Neroon parried the intricate blur of jabs aimed at his midsection and chest, the sharp retort of metal ringing in his ears. This human, who fought with such tenacity and fervor, fascinated him.

In the heat of battle Neroon remained cold, like a blade of ice, his mind as calculating as the computer in a Star Fury. 

Unlike Marcus, who burned bright and hot and passionate. He fought like a like a demon out of legend, the edge of madness glittering in his eyes. 

They knew each other after a fashion, having fought before. Neroon blocked the ensuing strikes and feints designed to test for weakness, and to gauge reaction time.

The _Shai'Alyt_ was familiar enough with the strategy. The number of his previous opponents numbered in the thousands by now, and with each one he added to his bank of combat experience. He recognized most of Marcus's moves, but not all. The Ranger combined them in inventive ways, and with blinding speed, dancing light on his feet, never losing his center of balance. 

How strange to realize this human, despite his young appearance, was a seasoned warrior. A predator and a killer, as he himself was. 

Stepping closer, Neroon flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply. Though they were of different species, some things were very similar. Like scent. Marcus exuded the salty, spicy aroma of arousal, spiked with adrenaline. No fear.

Another flurry of strikes came in low and hard. Neroon blocked them, not offering any counterattack, content to watch and learn. He was beginning to see the basis of the stories he had taken pains to learn in the past week. Was it really true that this slender sapling of a man could take down twenty humans in a matter of minutes? Only those who possessed the _los ahael_ \--blood fire--were capable of such feats. Most warriors, even the strongest and most disciplined, thought twice before entering that state. It risked total loss of control. Only the bravest--or the most foolish--indulged in such reckless behavior.

The inherent paradox intrigued Neroon in ways he had almost forgotten.

It was what made him capitulate. 

But first he found an opening, dove in and tapped Marcus on his right side, three times. Light touches, subtle, teasing. A reminder. For all his skill, the young ranger was still healing, and favored his right side.

With unnerving speed Marcus parried low, stepped inside Neroon's sphere of defense, and thrust high, pike flying upward. Unflinching, Neroon took the knock, then stood his ground, letting his denn'bok fall into neutral position, loose in his hands. His gaze never left the blazing green eyes, not even when the blunt tip of Marcus's staff hovered a finger's breadth from Neroon's left temple.

"Fight me, you bastard." The hissed words sounded lower than a sibilant whisper. 

"I yield," Neroon said.

Shocked gasps greeted this declaration.

"No," Marcus growled, so low only Neroon could hear him. "Finish what you started."

"I concede the match," Neroon said, unmoving. To get what he wanted, he needed to humble himself. Neroon understood the power in submission. He knew Marcus abided by the warrior's code. He would not disregard it, not even to satisfy personal vendetta. 

Neroon held the stare that was as hot as his was cold.

*******

Marcus trembled on the edge of release. The thinnest fetters of control kept him from the fatal blow he wanted to strike. But to what end? To satisfy pride? Selfish pride?

He felt the blood drain from his face. Abruptly, he stepped back, letting the tip of his weapon drop. With a flick of his wrist he telescoped the pole down into a compact rod. He gave a short, abrupt bow. "I accept."

"Yeah!" came a yell from the back of the room, then a spatter of claps that soon became a rolling thunder. 

Marcus turned and made his way to the exit. The ache that had started as a mere twinge in his right side during an ambitious overhead parry now throbbed with a deep-seated burning pain. Served him right. Bloody hell, how could he be so stupid? What was he trying to prove to himself? Or was it to the assemblage of his peers? He'd put away any thought of self, of his person, long ago. The Marcus of the mining colony Arisia 3 no longer existed. He died when his family died. He lived only to avenge them--

" _Anla'shok_ Cole."

Marcus gritted his teeth. He had made it as far as the practice armory, where all the equipment was stored.

"You said you would meet with me if we sparred," Neroon said.

Marcus turned. "I said I would consider it." He glanced at the curious faces surrounding them, and heard the noise dying down, most likely to eavesdrop on their conversation. "Inside." He ducked into the room that was more like a niche. "And shut the door behind you."

Neroon followed. 

Inside the small enclosed space they stood face to face and eye to eye, much too close for Marcus's liking. Walls, festooned by lightweight practice weapons and shelves of padded armor, loomed around them.

"What do you want?" Marcus asked brusquely, trying to ignore the sharp hitch in his side that stabbed him with every inhalation. So much for this training session being a walk in the _Zocolo_.

"I wanted to see you--"

"You've seen me. Are we done?"

Dark eyes stared at him. "Impatient…and suspicious."

"You beat the living shi--" Marcus struggled to keep his voice from rising. "Why did you hold back out there?"

"It was _shan'hak_ \--play."

"Why you arrogant--" Marcus launched himself at the warrior, pressing Neroon against the door. A nearby rack of training staves rattled, threatening to fall. "It wasn't _play_ that time Down Below, yet you held back. Why didn't you finish what you started? Do you find me weak? An inferior opponent not worth your time?"

"You woke me from my madness," Neroon said calmly. The muscled body remained still and relaxed beneath Marcus's grip. "But for you, I would be a lord of war. Internecine war, a civil conflict such has not been seen in Minbari history since the dark times. You showed me the error of my ways. I owe…." Neroon's gaze dropped. "I am in your debt. I would have disgraced myself, and my people. Lost my honor. Set in motion a chain of events I would have never been able to stop. I don't know how Delenn lives with herself."

"Minbari would've gone to war anyway," Marcus protested. "You can't lay that at her feet!"

Indigo eyes turned back to Marcus. "It is--how do you humans say it--the block that when it falls, sets the others in motion? With one sentence she condemned thousands to death. With one death, I would have condemned thousands more of my people." The warrior tensed, gloved hands clenching. "My people. Minbari slaughtering Minbari…." The level voice faltered. "But for you, I would have walked the path to hell."

Neroon smiled, but it didn't reach his haunted eyes. "Besides, one fights his enemy, not his friend."

Marcus's eyes widened. He loosened his hands and stumbled back. "Friend?"

"If you would permit it."

"You're apologizing?" Marcus couldn't believe it. This Minbari leader, this proud warrior, _apologizing_ to him, a lowly Ranger?

"No. I'm explaining," came the sharp reply. Straightening to his full height, Neroon tugged his studded tunic back into place. "And I wanted to give you something, one warrior to another."

From the depths of his mantle Neroon pulled out a bundle wrapped in crimson cloth. 

"For you." He placed the parcel in Marcus's hands. 

The material felt cool against the Ranger's hot palms--silk, bound loosely over a sleek black sheath edged with decorative silver fittings. Very old, from the looks of it. No, not old. Ancient. Holding his breath, Marcus slid out the blade, marveling at the wavering sheen along the lethal edge, like a coating of fine frost.

"It's called a _tanto_ \--"

"I know what the bloody hell it is," Marcus replied, but his tone lacked heat.

"Remarkable craftsmanship, created by a race of your people called…Japanese?"

Marcus drew in another deep breath. "That's right." He grimaced. The pain in his side was growing worse.

 "I can't take this, Neroon." Marcus re-wrapped the _tanto_ , fingers lingering over the intricately bound hilt, and the _menuki_ \--charms--imprisoned there. Were those actually dragon insignia? And bats?

"It is customary to bestow restitution when one has wronged a fellow warrior."

"This is worth a fortune. I don't deserve--I, I was only doing my duty."

"Take it." Neroon drew himself up. "Or I will crack three more of your ribs until you accept. _Ma're_?--Understand? _Nee Shan'hak_ \--Not play."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

********

The look of consternation on the _Anla'shok's_ face made Neroon smile. With just the power of his words, he had caught Marcus off-guard. The expression on the man's face was that of a surprised boy. Surprised, yes, but also hurt.

"It is a sign of respect, _Anla'shok_ Cole," Neroon said patiently, in the manner of an adult instructing a child. "It is not polite to refuse."

"Not trying to buy me off then?" Marcus said lightly.

Neroon laughed, delighted. "Take it, stubborn human. For the sake of your health--"

"Marcus!" A muffled voice came from the other side of the door, accompanied by heavy pounding. "Are you okay? What is that Minbari--"

"Go away, Derrick. I'm busy. Can't a man have a moment in peace?"

"You sure you're all right?"

"Bugger off! Unless you want my pike up your--"

"Fine! Let me know if you need anything."

Marcus gave a lop-sided smile. "Sorry." His head bowed as he gazed at the sheathed dagger. His hair curtained his face like a sheet of water in shadow. Neroon stared, wondering if that dark mane felt as soft as the silk he had wrapped about the gift.

"I haven't had anyone give me a present in a long time," Marcus said in a soft whisper. "Not since, since…." A bright green gaze flashed upward. " _Nusen'taal_ \--" Neroon smiled at the formal phrase of thanks, "I accept--"

"Good."

"--on one condition."

"And what might that be?"

"That you teach me the difference between _shan'tak_ and _nee shan'tak_ when we spar." He grinned. "There aren't many of us about-- _Sech_ Durhann's elect. I need some challenge."

Neroon laughed, charmed. "That I can provide, I believe. But first…." He stepped close and laid a hand over the hand Marcus now held splinted over his right ribcage. "You'll see my _Hela'mer_ \--healer. The best in the fleet, and very well-versed in _Shan'hela_ \--unless you prefer your Dr. Franklin?"

A distinct look of unease crossed Marcus's features. "Well, yes, that might be a good idea. Stephen doesn't…well I didn't--"

"It will be our secret," Neroon said.

The young man nodded, then tucked the dagger into his waistband, under his tunic with his free hand. 

"I still don’t trust you." Marcus placed his hand over Neroon's, but made no move to dislodge it.

"There is an old saying in an ancient language of your people:  _Ubi Concordia, Ibi Victoria_." Neroon said.

Marcus raised his eyebrows. " 'Where There Is Unity, There Is Victory.' You speak Latin?"

"No." Neroon laughed, a rich, deep throaty sound that made Marcus's breath catch. "But there is another saying, common to both our peoples. 'It is always wise to study the ways of one's enemies.' During the war, I did a great deal of studying." 

"Hm." Marcus looked down at their layered hands.  

In that small sound, Neroon heard something else besides thoughtful consideration. Beneath Marcus's voice something interesting lurked, something hidden, something denied. 

Something Neroon wanted to understand.

"I now see possibility in unity between human and Minbari," Neroon said. He laid his free hand over Marcus's chest, just left of center. "We are of the same heart, you and I, though you do not yet believe it."

"Unity is one thing, and victory another." Marcus said. "I will beat you one day, Neroon." He looked up and grinned, like a boy up to some reckless mischief.

"Spoken like a true warrior," Neroon replied. "Which means you will visit me when my ship is in space-dock?"

"Count on it." Marcus leaned against Neroon for the briefest instant as they made for the door. 

********

_"Strange, that a human in his last moments should be more of a Minbari than I. Perhaps it is true what Delenn said, we are not of the same blood, but we are of the same heart…."_

_Neroon, from "Grey 17 is Missing", Babylon 5, Season 3, episode 19._


End file.
